We talk as we walk and he, ‘Louie’, apologises for being late as his satnav sent him the wrong way and then he got stuck on the outer ring road.
I stopped paying attention after his name. “Were you named Louie after the song?”
“Song?”
“‘Louie, Louie’ by Iggy…”
“Richard Berry and The Pharaohs, but no, Louis Armstrong.”
So Louie is a Louis Louie. “Ah, right. Yes, I love his ‘Wonderful World’… reminds me of Good Morning Vietnam whenever I hear it, and ‘All The Time In The World’ gets me going every time.”
“Really?”
“I’ve got them both on a list to play at my funeral.”
“That’s a bit morbid.”
“It is, isn’t it, but I’m a practical sort of person.”
“I’m sure Louis would be chuffed.”
“Do you reckon? I think if I wrote songs I’d rather have them played at weddings.”
“So what is it that you do?”
“Secretary for a training company.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“Most of the time, yes. Where do you work?” I’m willing him to say Gizmodo, but I know they’re an American company.
“Gadget Shack in Leicester. Been there since fourteen, no, fifteen years, and my house is packed with toys.”
Again, out comes the Dibley laugh. Shoot me now.
I’m dying to talk toys, but he speaks first. “So, which is your favourite?”
“Probably something simple like a wind-up grasshopper.”
“No!” He looks at me as if I’ve just told him off. “I’ve got one of those.”
“You have? Really?”
I grin like a badly drawn Cheshire cat and am feeling like Alice, the Vicar’s dopey sidekick.
As we arrive at the café we’re next in line to order, so I can only hope he’s forgotten how inane I’m being, and we can start from scratch when we get seated. This proves difficult on both counts as the pavement seating area outside is packed and we fare no better when we return inside. We’ve both gone for a sandwich and juice, so at least it’s easy to eat standing, although the café itself is sardined like a tube train and I’m seriously regretting wearing a white Gap shirt and ordering a bright orange, distinctly packed with colourings, orange juice. I picture a scene from Notting Hill where I’m Julia Roberts and Louis is Hugh Grant and we bump into each other, so I have to go back to his gadget-crammed house to get changed. Knowing my luck, he’d have a lodger like Spike with a hideous t-shirt I’d have to wear.
Louis, however, is the sort of person who looks über cool in everything he wears or does and I’m getting a case of serious stalker yearning. He’s been nothing but charming. He bought my shirt-threatening juice, my chicken coronation on granary (which is another no-no for anything white) and lets me ramble without looking bored. He’s tall (six feet six – I asked), dark and handsome: a typical Mills & Boon hero.
As we talk techie, he’s like a walking gadget dictionary – a gadgetionary. I thought he’d be worth giving up a lunch break for, but never imagined the internet would house someone like him.
I’m thinking things couldn’t get any better, when in walks Miss Blonde Supermodel from ReadyEddie’s Aviator. I know I have nothing to worry about because she’s already spoken for, but Louis’ eyes almost pop out. It would be funny if not so depressing. She smiles at him provocatively and it’s as if I don’t exist.
I don’t know whether to say anything. I feel I should because it’s our date, not hers, but I’ve never been any good as a jealous bunny-boiler, so I continue where we left off. “A friend of mine gave me the grasshopper as a present.” I don’t see the harm in more lies at this stage as he’s not paying any attention to me, but I have to say something. And something I know he’d be interested in.
“Yes?” he says, but still isn’t looking in my direction.
I should be pleased because at least he’s listening. “Yes, it was hilarious. Don’t you think?”
“Uh huh.”
I need to up the ante. Supermodels are famous for being nice but dim. Surely Louis is above all that ‘looks’ stuff, but I see his expression intensify and realise he’s not.
And he can’t have missed the rings on her left hand. The engagement ring’s stone is bigger than the rock of Gibraltar, but it doesn’t seem to be stopping her either.
I can’t watch. It’s like a scene in a movie when two star-crossed lovers meet for the first time and you know they are destined to be with each other.
It’s Mr Supermodel I feel sorry for. And, if I’m honest, myself. I’ve only known Louis a matter of minutes, but I like him. Really like.
Feeling like a right lemon, I quickly finish my lunch while they’re still staring at each other. Although I know I’m talking to a brick wall, I try nonetheless.
“I’d better return to work.”
“Huh?” He’s still facing her, with his back to me.
“Work. I have to go.”
He reluctantly turns round, leaving Miss BS to order her lunch. His is still untouched. Anticipating an ‘I’m sorry, I’m being so rude’, and quietly hoping for an added, ‘She’s just eye candy. You have depth. It’s you I’d rather be with’, I know I’m going to be disappointed.
“Sure,” is all I get, and he turns away from me.
If I had any drink left, I’d be sorely tempted to pour it over his head, but I’m not that much of a drama queen, even for someone as hot as him.
Needless to say, I can see there’s no point in me staying any longer, so I leg it. One good thing to come out of it is that he bought me lunch, and I’ve got an article that’s going to be a bit of fun. Plus if I get it done I won’t have to work for a third Saturday in a row.
What did I learn from this lunchtime? Yes, that’s right. Today was a lunch date. L2 is a stunner. Sadly just from the neck upwards. And what was above the neck was easily turned. So she was drop dead, but she’s also married, and that didn’t stop either of them. If we single girls are having trouble finding a single guy we like and who likes us, then double that if they’re quite happy to date women who are already taken.
And what’s to say L2 isn’t married himself? Why is it that ninety-nine-point-nine per cent of married women wear a ring (or in this instance, two – the engagement ring probably worth the same as my house) and yet it’s perfectly fine for men to not wear a ring? Isn’t it a little sexist in these days of equality? What does it say about a woman who insists her new husband wear one? That said, statistics of married women having affairs are startling, and why do we think it’s worse for the wife to be the guilty party? If a man has lots of women in tow, he’s a stud, whereas we all know what is thought of the woman if she has more than one man.
So, today’s episode proves that attraction doesn’t stop just because you’re wearing a token of your partner’s affection. Who’s to know that their affection isn’t being sought elsewhere?
Apart from the free lunch (who said that it doesn’t exist?), we did have a fun conversation about technology and have a wind-up grasshopper in common (review to follow next month when normality – not necessarily sanity – resumes) and he was a funny guy. It’s just a shame I became invisible once Mrs Supermodel appeared on the scene.
Other than being superficial, L2 is a real catch (typical tall, dark and handsome) and if he is single then he’d make someone a great husband – but don’t expect him to wear your ring, or if he does, to still be wearing it when another Mrs S catches his eye.
Thank you for your feedback on this column. While it was an unexpected project, it has been an enlightening experience and one that appears to strike a chord with you. There are tales of woe, and others of triumph, but the ones in between provide hope that there are many normal men out there for us (dare I say ‘normal’?) girls in here.
So, today’s two items ticked on my ‘dater’s shopping list’: Don’t – let your head rule your heart and Do – watch out for a sunta
n circle on his left hand. I remember that from an old episode of Home & Away; Donald Fisher’s daughter Bobby, and I visualise their conversation – I have a better memory than I thought… for the important things, clearly.
With fresh cup of tea in hand, a little disappointment in my heart and article safely in William’s tray (he didn’t look up – just said a quiet “thanks”), I crack on with answering tallgirlnn1 messages. I’m surprised to see one from Louis. I read it and burst out laughing.
Where did you disappear to? I thought we were getting on well. Is he serious? I run it all through my head again. Could they have known each other already and were just friends? Nah. That was lust, pure and simple.
I press the black ‘X’, which deletes the message and the next one pops open. It’s from SoftieBear checking we’re still on for three p.m. tomorrow. I reply that I am.
QuincyJ says he may have to postpone as he may have to stay in Derbyshire and travel down on Tuesday, but he’ll let me know. I’m keeping everything crossed.
There are three left and they’re all new. Yay. The first is KromerG (Garth). He’s a chatty little soul and his profile looks like he could be fun, but I know from recent experience that looks can be deceptive. Still, I like to be optimistic and reply equally heartily.
Next up is ScotInNorthants. Innes lists the Shipman’s Public Inn on the Drapery as his ‘second home’. I Google it and see it’s one of the few Scottish pubs in the town. It’s also reported to be haunted, which will at least make for an interesting conversation. I reply and suggest it as a meeting place. Apart from The Moon on the Square and Chicago’s, I’ve never been in any of the pubs around the Drapery/Market Square and this one sounds like fun.
Last but not least is VABellinge. I assume his initials are V and A and he lives in Bellinge, and I’m right. Vance says it’s a great place to live and I’m delighted. Despite living in the town for a number of years, I’ve never really been there and it’s so easy to be swayed by the media (although I should know better).
By the time I’m ready to leave the office, KromerG and Innes have replied. Dates are therefore set for Thursday and Friday respectively. I’m hoping to slot Vance in for Saturday, so email him again saying it’s the only evening I have free (which is true). It’s a bit forward (and emailing twice borders on stalkerish), but it’s a popular night and I have to see someone, and what would be better than to see Bellinge on a busy night. Now, where did I put my body armour?
Donna’s so engrossed in her new project that she’s forgotten all about my lunch date, so I pop over to see her.
“Are you having fun?”
“Oh, yes,” she gushes, “it’s amazing the differences in price. I’m so glad William gave me this task.”
“And me mine, kind of.”
“Ah yes, Lunch Boy. How did it go?”
“You’re busy, so how about you go on to the network and read my article if you want a break. I’ve put a hard copy in William’s tray as usual.”
“I’ve always thought that’s funny.”
“What?”
“That you’re the only one he asks for the hard copy of.”
“What?” I say, recalling my solitary file.
Donna nods.
“Are you sure?”
She nods again. “Do you see anyone else trailing into his office, paperwork in hand, early afternoon day in day out?”
“Now you come to mention it… Maybe he finds more mistakes with mine?”
“Do the published versions look very different?”
“No, not usually.”
“Well then.”
“But there must be some explanation.”
“Of course there is.”
“What?”
“Doh.”
“What do you mean, ‘Doh’?”
“Remember the mug incident this morning?”
“Yes…”
“Izzy. Sometimes you can be so thick.” Pot, kettle, black. “He’s got the hots for you.”
“You keep saying that, but it’s ridiculous.”
“Why else would he do what he does?”
“He doesn’t trust me.”
“Think about it. William’s got a crush all right, but it’s not on Janine.”
I shake my head, but it does make sense. I’ve never thought of him in that way, but he has shown a more vulnerable side to himself lately and I must admit, it’s kind of sweet.
“No, Donna, can’t go there. He’s the boss. And he’s… he’s William. No, definitely not.”
“Methinks the lady doth.”
“I’m going now. Get ready for the next date.”
“Which is…” She looks at the clock. “In about twenty hours’ time.”
I don’t have an answer, or another excuse. “See you Monday.”
She looks suddenly miserable.
“What?”
“Am I not seeing you over the weekend?”
“I thought you were busy with your speed-dating guys?”
“Not really. Saw Walter last night…”
“Did you? You didn’t say. How did it go?”
A shake of her head says it all.
“And of course there’s still Duncan. He’ll be a breath of fresh air compared with Mike the Slob.”
“He’s not that bad.”
“Donna!”
“But his heart’s in the right place.”
“And it’s covered in lard.”
That sets her giggling and it’s lovely to see her happy again. If she and Duncan are meant to be then I will truly be happy for them both. I’ll keep telling myself that.
Chapter 20 – Bear at Abington Park
I’m pretty pleased with myself when I wake up. Last night I watched two DVDs back to back and only munched my way through a small bag of popcorn. I was also in bed by ten and that’s pretty good for me.
I set a load of washing going, do the washing-up, and have a shower. I pay homage to my combi-boiler on a daily basis as it pumps out ready-to-roll piping hot water (eventually) whenever I want it.
Wrapped in a cosy dressing gown, purple of course, I’m about to make a cup of tea when I realise the milk’s past its due date. I open the top, sniff and recoil. I lift the washing-up bowl (there’s nothing worse that its underside smelling) and tip the milk down the sink. I use the word ‘tip’ loosely. I swill the remnants away, wash out the empty plastic bottle and leave it to drain.
Fortunately my local store is a three-minute walk away (roughly, I’m not sad enough to time it), so I get dressed and take enough cash to buy some milk, bread and a paper. I never get why the weekend papers are so much more expensive than the daily ones – the tabloids usually look the same. Today there’s a free DVD of No One Knows with the Guardian, which I’m tempted to get despite already having the film on my shelves. I buy it with the excuse of being interested in the Arts Review (which I am, I’ve still not forgotten that I’d like to write a book someday) and decide to send the DVD to a friend in Germany.
I’m just walking out of the shop when I see Ursula locking her car on the opposite side of the road.
“Morning.”
“Hi, Izzy.”
She looks knackered. “You look well, Ursula.”
“Thanks. Bit tired.”
“Late night?”
“You could say that.”
I can tell by her smile there’s gossip to be had.
“Yes?”
“Saw Nick.”
Her smirk says everything. I don’t need to ask, but I can’t resist. “And it went well.”
“Kind of… on my way back from his house.”
“Good girl. So Zeek’s out of the picture then.”
“Seeing him tomorrow night.”
“Ursula!”
“I know, but I’m waning. I really like Nick. He’s not as quiet as he seems.” The smirk returns.
“Too much information.”
“Zeek was cute, but…”
“He’s no Nick.”
“Indeed. And you?”
“Ticking over. I’m meeting a friend shortly, so I’d better go.”
“Have a nice time. I’ll no doubt see you soon.”
I’m glad I don’t have to explain (lie). June and normality, here I come.
The first thing that gets me about SoftieBear is that he’s tiny. He can’t be more than five feet and his dog is up to his hips. She is gorgeous. I love dogs anyway and she’s the one I’d want to put in my bag and take home. She’s obviously too big, but I’d still try.
Abington Park’s usually full of squirrels, so I can imagine SoftieBear being pulled over if his dog decided to chase one. For someone so short, he’s pretty skinny. Nowhere near Lawrence proportions, but too thin for my liking.
Another thing that strikes me is his lack of confidence. A lot of small men I’ve met have been larger than life to make up for it. Softie has bright ginger hair with equally loud eyebrows that meet in the middle, and nearly as much hair as his dog.
As they walk towards me I stifle a laugh as they both have bow legs. They make a fine pair, like a Queen Anne table. From the way he’s talking to his dog, he’s an animal lover, so that’s mega brownie points.
He introduces himself as Bear Patrick, so I call him Patrick, assuming he’d done the Bond, James thing, but he says, “No, my first name’s Bear.” I wonder what kind of parents called their son Bear, but remember there’s a TV presenter called Bear. At least this Bear’s surname isn’t Paddington or Rupert – now that would be funny.
“Is it really your name?” I ask stupidly.
He rolls his eyes, pauses, then bursts out laughing, so I relax.
“Sorry, I get asked so often. No, it’s not. I’m Edward, but I’ve been called Bear since I was a baby. I only use Edward at work, for new clients, and so on.”
“Oh…” is all I can think of saying, but I’m relieved he’s got a sense of humour. This is the third Ed I’ll have met by the end of the month. He’s nothing like ReadyEddie and, I suspect, worlds away from EddieG.
The fine spell we’ve been having appears to be at an end as dark clouds loom overhead.
The Serial Dater Page 22